Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [64]
I went past them and, checking the directions Maura had written for me, found the doorway I was looking for in the night. Not too surprisingly, there were some kids bivouacked in front of the building I’d been told to find. A couple of them were passing a joint and another was bopping to a boom box blazing a Tupac number, “Dear Mama.” The aroma of their chronic drifted to me as I got close. Their blunt popped and sizzled, too many seeds in the cheap shit they were toking on.
“Hey,” one of the kids said, spying me as Shakur growled, “I reminisced on tha stress I caused, it wuz hell huggin’ on my mama from a jail cell.”
“You a boxer, are you, mistah? Come to show us hooligans how to put our energies and urges to good use?” He did a quick flurry, hands and feet movin’ and grovin’ all the time, his eyes never leaving mine.
The others cracked up. The oldest of them couldn’t have been over thirteen. Since yesterday it had been hard as Chinese chess for me to understand their accents. But now with the jones all over me like poison ivy, I was getting every word.
To the one, they all looked hungry. Not for a burger so much as that something they couldn’t get growing up around here. Say what you want about anything else, but that was a condition I knew something about, ’cause it was how I’d come up in South Central L.A., even if I never did live in the projects.
“Gotta do some business.” I flashed a ducat.
“Yeah?” the one who’d called me a boxer said. “Like ’em young, do you?”
“Sound like I’m cooing like Michael Jackson?” Not that I believed for a second these little shits wouldn’t have taken me around the corner and laid a busted chair leg or rusted muffler upside my head in a heartbeat. I pressed the money into the kid’s chest and he took hold of it. I pointed at the door behind him.
He snorted and, making a show like he was Jeeves, stepped aside, bowing and indicating for me to come forward. What a surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and I entered the tower called Pearse, whoever the hell that was.
As the door closed behind me, my radar bumpin’ in case one of them got a notion, I heard a clop-clop. I looked back through the safety glass and got sight of another kid in a watchcap and torn windbreaker galloping up to the others on a spotted nag. The horse’s belly was sagging, the hind legs barely thicker than my arms, but damned if those kids didn’t gather around it, petting and nuzzling the sad beast. Maybe they’d use the scratch I gave them to feed the thing rather than waste it on weed. Yeah, maybe.
I went up the stairs; the hallways were pretty clean and there were few busted lights considering it was public housing. I got to the fourth floor, an older lady all bundled up coming at me from the opposite direction, humming a tune. She lifted her head and then stopped singing. Her eyes went wide and she breathed all funny ’cause she wasn’t sure what to make of me prowlin’ about.
“What’s this then?” she said as I stepped past. “You going undercover for the Gardaí?” She smelled of cigarettes and crushed flowers, and I finally got to the door I’d been directed to after Maura had made her third call.
“Now, mind you, you’re an able lad, Zelmont,” Maura had said, her hand down between my legs, “but you want to stay sharp, right? They’ll be more scared of you, what with you being big and black and delicious”—she kissed me—“but they grow them tough over there too, right? Just because this isn’t the South Side or Harlem doesn’t mean they’ll all curl up and cry.”
“Thanks, baby,” I’d said, kissing her back. “You just order up a roast beef sandwich or potato pancakes or whatever the hell y’all eat over here from room service, and I’ll be back soon for round two.”
“You better,” and she put some flutter in her lids while she locked her hand around my johnson, sliding her grip up and down its growing length.